


what's in an inch

by green_piggy



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: During Canon, Fluff, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Happy Ending, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trans Ephraim, Trans Male Character, implied Forde/Kyle, it's very mild but tagging to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 08:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28348320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_piggy/pseuds/green_piggy
Summary: Ephraim isnotmoping about being an inch smaller than his own sister. He’s not!Still, despite his protests, his friends see to setting him right.
Relationships: Eirika & Ephraim (Fire Emblem), Ephraim & Forde & Kyle (Fire Emblem), Ephraim & Forde (Fire Emblem), Ephraim & Heanius | Innes, Ephraim & Kyle (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Fire Emblem Trans Winter Exchange 2020





	what's in an inch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dr33g](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr33g/gifts).



> happy holidays everyone - and hope you enjoy this fic, dwyer! i did my best to stick to the prompt, but i'm not sure how goofy this piece is, haha - still, i had an absolute blast writing this, so thank you so much for the great prompts! <3 sacred stones always needs more love

After another day of travel, their army stops to set up camp for the night in the high mountains, where the wind whistles through gaps in the rocks and sounds like the cries of the dead. Ephraim has both seen and heard far worse, so it doesn’t faze him, nor does he let it bother him. Tonight was a day of success, after all; a battle’s difficulty could approximately be judged by how much Forde slept during it. Today, he may as well have been in a coma.

Sliding off his horse, chest aching and ribs burning, Ephraim turns to grab his supply bag — and is stopped by a firm hand pressing _down_ on his shoulder. His heart thuds in his ears even before he hears the familiar voice.

“Brother,” his sister says, polite but firm. _“Please_ get down from your tip-toes.”

“I’m not—”

Her hand pushes down harder. With a grunt, Ephraim lands on the flats of his feet — and peers up at his sister.

It’s barely even a head tilt. She’s, what, an inch taller than him? But that doesn’t take their boots into consideration; although Ephraim’s have a slight heel, hers are larger, and that only widens the gap between them to two inches, if not a bit over.

To anyone else, it would be a tiny, insignificant difference, one not even worth registering.

To Ephraim, he might as well not even reach his sister’s ankle.

It’s something neither of them can help, he knows, but Eirika isn’t tall to begin with. And she’s not… she’s not a _man._ It’s a fact that men are typically taller than women.

And, Ephraim, well. He _isn’t_ taller.

He hears Eirika let out another sigh before soft hands suddenly ruffle through his hair. Ephraim yelps and leans back on instinct, but Eirika, her frown widening into a cheeky smile, just follows and continues to further mess up his hair.

“H-hey, stop that-!”

“There we go!” Eirika rests her hands on her hips, still beaming. _“Now_ will you promise me to stop hurting yourself, walking around on your toes like that?”

Hesitantly, Ephraim reaches a hand to the top of his head. His hair’s always usually rather unruly — he simply doesn’t have _time_ to take great care of it — but now, Eirika has fluffed it up by a good inch or two. He catches his reflection in the gleam of Eirika’s rapier, strapped to her waist, and from what little of his face he can see… he looks _taller._ Only by a bit, but it makes his heart lighten and a weight loosen from his chest. It’s still aching, but that’s down to his binder.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he insists. And then, a second later, his eyes widen as he scrambles out to say: “And I don’t walk about on my tip-toes!”

Eirika hums, clearly not convinced. “Regardless of if you currently do or not, don’t do it in the future. We spend most of the time on our steads—” Eirika’s horse gives a cooing neigh as her hand scratches under its chin. “—people don’t pay attention to your height.” She smiles. “And your body is longer than mine, so you appear taller.”

For how close they are, for how Eirika is the moon to his own sun, the best sibling that he could hope to ask for… she couldn’t _understand._ All she had to do was throw on a chest plate and a skirt and nobody spared her a second glance. No doubt that she had her own struggles that he could never comprehend, but neither could she grasp his.

Height… height was such a seemingly insignificant thing. It was something no one had any control over. You couldn’t walk up to the gods of this world and ask them, hey, could you pretty please make me at least six foot, thanks a bunch!

It would have been _nice_ to be able to, though. Ephraim knows that he can’t help being… small. He can’t help having to crane his neck up to see most of his friends, and he certainly isn’t the only short man around.

But being smaller than his sister _stings._ Even if they were both born into a body that the other longed for, and he knows that she must be envious of him as well, even though she never shows it, that doesn’t stop his own feelings.

“...Brother?”

“Ah — I’m sorry, Eirika.” He tries to give her a smile. “I was lost in my own thoughts.”

“A rare occurrence for you,” she teases, but she still looks concerned. “There are plenty of things you can do to make yourself taller. You could attach metal plates to your boots—”

_“What.”_

“—or wear boots with heels on them?”

_Why was your first thought not_ **_that,_ **Ephraim wants to ask, but he knows that his sister’s mind can run in mysterious ways at times. Perhaps it was L’Arachel’s extremely questionable influence.

“I’ll… keep that in mind.” Ephraim nods. “Thanks.” He awkwardly throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna, uh, set up camp and change my clothes.”

A hand flies to Eirika’s mouth. “Oh! Of course!” Her fingers grip the wrinkles in her dirtied skirt as she bows slightly. “I’ll leave you to it, Ephraim! See you later!”

He can’t help but smile. “See you.”

* * *

“Why are you mopin’?”

“I’m _not_ moping,” Ephraim says in a very moping tone. He’s allowed to feel a bit sorry for himself!

He could feel Forde and Kyle exchange a glance over his hunched back, probably something along the lines of _“the prince is being a complete tool again”_ before Forde swings an arm over Ephraim’s shoulders. “C’mon, Prince Ephraim! We’re your pals! The three of us seized a whole fort together!”

_“Must_ you speak to our lord prince in so casual a tone..?”

“Hey, I called him Prince, didn’t I!?”

Kyle lets out a sigh heavy enough to shift mountains. “I _suppose…”_

“You’re distracting from what matters!” Forde gives Ephraim’s shoulders a good shake. When Ephraim turns his head to look at him, Forde’s smile is only inviting and kind. “Seriously, though. Whatever’s bothering you, we’ll hear it out. No laughing of any kind!”

“As loathe as I am to admit it, Forde is correct.” Kyle flings another stick into the campfire before turning to Ephraim with his own smile, albeit one significantly more awkward than Forde’s. “We may be your soldiers, but… we are also your friends.”

“What he said!”

_“I am not your friend.”_

“Not what he said…”

That gets a snort out of Ephraim, and judging from how both of their faces soften, that had been their intentions all along. Shaking his head, Ephraim sits up straight, Forde’s arm still warm around his shoulders.

“Do you…” He feels childish, now, but he barrels on. _Not_ talking will only further worry them, after all, and he is a terrible liar. “Do you notice that I’m shorter than Eirika?”

There’s a beat of silence, then:

“Is that bothering you _again?”_ Forde groans. He throws back his head, taking back his arm from Ephraim’s body to wave it about dramatically. Kyle doesn’t say anything, but his face is pitched tight.

“Your Highness…”

“She’s taller than me!” Ephraim cries.

“By an _inch!”_ Forde responds. He’s keeping his voice low enough to not draw the attention of anyone walking by, which Ephraim is grateful for — the last thing he wants is Eirika cuffing his ass again or Innes scoffing at him. Still, his cheeks warm.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but—”

Forde sighs. “If it’s bothering you, it ain’t ridiculous. I just wish you’d get it into your thick head already that literally _nobody else notices.”_

“He has a point. Unfortunately.” Kyle gives a minute shrug. “Our soldiers have far more pressing matters to be concerned about than one person’s height.”

“Even if that person is their commander?” Ephraim asks, his voice a bit sharper than intended.

“Even despite that!” Forde clenches his hand into a fist and grins. “And if anyone _does_ have anything to say, I’ll teach them a good lesson!”

“No, you won’t,” Ephraim and Kyle both chime simultaneously.

Forde sags. “I’m not _that_ weak,” he mutters.

“Oh, it’s not that,” Kyle says. “We only say that because you’ll fall asleep before doing anything.”

_“...Shush.”_

Ephraim chuckles. He feels himself going forlorn again as he gazes at the flickering flames in front of them. Idly, his eyes go down to his sprawled out legs, then further down to the bottoms of his boots. “I only wish to be a tiny bit taller,” he murmurs. “It seems strange to me that magic cannot do that much.”

“I’m pretty sure you’d have to grow every bone in your body, and I dunno about you, but that sounds _painful.”_ Forde stretches out his legs in front of him and his arms over his head with a mighty yawn. He makes a noise and glances over at Ephraim, eyes sharp. “You’ve taken off your binder, right?”

“Yes, I’ve taken it off, you don’t need to nag.” On instinct, Ephraim’s hands wrinkle up his baggy shirt and make his body appear shapeless. He may be muscular, but he’s also skinny.

“I’m not _nagging—”_

“We’re just looking out for you, Ephraim,” comes Kyle’s gentle voice.

Sighing, Ephraim runs a hand over his face, careful not to touch his hair. “...I know, I know,” he grits out, pushing down the instinctive flare of anger. “And I apologise. I appreciate it, truly.”

Forde elbows his side. “Aww, we know, man! Don’t sweat it!”

“Er…” Kyle nods. “What he said.”

They descend into a comfortable silence, the three of them sat together in front of the fire. It reminds Ephraim of the many sleepless nights they’d spent talking together on the initial march to Grado, back when they were three foolish boys who were convinced that they could save a nation.

Orson had been there, of course, but even back then, he’d been so distant from them. Not quite with reality.

Ephraim shakes his head. There is no point ruminating on such sorrowful thoughts.

“We could strap stuff to the bottom of Ephraim’s shoes,” comes Forde’s suddenly thoughtful sounding mumble. “Just. I dunno.” He claps his hands together and turns. “Kyle; you talk with Lute, right? Ask her to weld some metal plates to Ephraim’s boots with her fire.”

Did Eirika and Forde share a single brain cell?

“I am _not_ asking her to do that.” Kyle raises his eyebrow so high that it almost disappears into his hairline.

“Why not?”

“Do you want the top ten reasons, or the full list?” Kyle hums. “It may take me several days to construct the latter, mind—”

_“Heeeeey!”_

Ephraim holds up his hand, trying not to smile and failing miserably at doing so. “I appreciate the thought, Forde, but that does sound… rather impractical.”

“We can take a look for some heeled boots the next time we’re in a town,” Kyle interjects before Forde can open his mouth and come up with another ‘brilliant’ scheme. “If that suits you?”

“I don’t see why not,” Ephraim says. “Just… not too much of a heel, otherwise people will definitely notice.”

“And you can come with us, Forde.” Kyle grins at Forde’s gaping mouth. “Your artistic eye will be useful, I think.”

“My artistic-!” Forde huffs and crosses his arms. “All right, _fine._ As long as you take whatever wooden figure I decide to get you.”

“If you insist.”

The look that the two of them then give each other is so tender and gooey and gross that it makes Ephraim almost gag on the spot. They’re courting each other, yes, but they share a tent for a reason. _“Anyway.”_

“Just keep in mind that your height doesn’t make you any less of a man,” Kyle says, and Ephraim is so caught off-guard by it that all he can do is squawk. “You are whatever you feel you are, regardless of appearance. I must say that you already appear more masculine than most.”

Ephraim swallows. “Kyle…”

“He’s right, y’know?” Forde rests his cheek on his hand and his elbow on his knee. “I don’t get what you’re feeling, yeah, but I know I’d kick it in the royal behind if I could. You’re _you._ There are plenty of short dudes! Look at my brother, for crying out loud! And Colm and Saleh are pretty short too. Don’t even get me _started_ on Knoll. I’m pretty sure he’s never seen sunlight until he joined our army.”

“I believe that Prince Innes’ boots have a slight heel as well.”

Ephraim looks between the two of them, heart impossibly fond.

They may not understand the weight suffocating his chest, his body, or his inability to look at himself clothesless without churning nausea, or… well, a _lot_ of things, but he knows that they’re right. Something as silly and meaningless as his height shouldn’t affect how others perceive him. He is _himself._ Nobody else.

And anyone who doesn't understand that can go stuff it.

Their support may not alleviate that heaviness completely, but it certainly does lighten it.

“...Thanks, guys.”

Both Forde and Kyle look startled, cheeks dusted with red a little. Forde is the first to recover; he stammers a couple of times before beaming.

“No worries, Prince! Now, about sticking those plates onto your boots—”

Kyle’s voice bellows: _“Stop being ridiculous!”_

Whistling to himself under his breath, Ephraim is more than content to close his eyes and allow the sounds of their squabbling to wash over him.

It’s a good night.

* * *

The next morning, so early that not even dawn has woken, Ephraim is stretching and about to go train when Innes marches up to him, skin already slick with sweat and bow trembling slightly in his hand from overexertion.

So, naturally, the first thing that comes out of Innes’s mouth is: “I was waiting for you to awaken. I need a sparring partner.”

Ephraim eyes him up and down. He pauses on Innes’ boots, and — yup, that’s definitely a bit of a heel. An easy extra inch, just like that. And to think that Ephraim had never noticed it before. If he was to wear something similar, would it just as discreet?

“Why are you looking at my boots?”

“A-ah—”

Innes clicks his tongue. “Are you truly that devoid of manners that you would rather gawk at another’s footwear than engage them in simple conversation?”

“Why are you using _so many words.”_ Ephraim digs both of his hands deep into his eyes. When he removes them, he blinks rapidly to get rid of the flashing streaks of white in his vision. Innes’ arched eyebrows become more visible as Ephraim’s vision clears. “It’s — it’s _way_ too early for you to be lecturing me. I got up to train. That’s _it.”_

“It is not-!” Innes huffs out a fierce breath through flaring nostrils. “It’s not my fault you’re sorely lacking in the skills necessary for a future king. If you cannot hope to keep up with me as a prince, how do you expect our countries to co-exist and help one another flourish when we both become kings?”

_“Innes.”_

“Hmm?”

“It is—” Ephraim squints at the horizon, bleeding baby pink through a blanket of thick darkness. “—not even five in the morning. Let’s — let’s just go train, okay?”

He can’t deny, though, that hearing ‘prince’ and ‘king’ makes his chest soar with warmth.

_“Hmph.”_ Innes throws his mullet back — how dare he criticise Ephraim on anything when he has a _mullet_ that looks like a heap of dying seaweed sadly plopped on top of his head — but, surprisingly, doesn’t hurl yet more grotesque words at Ephraim’s half-asleep brain. “Very well, then. We’ll be training with swords.”

“Rapiers, you mean. Like you can lift anything heavier.”

Innes’s eye twitch. “You won’t be saying that when you’re the one on the ground, Ephraim.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I defeated you at chopping watermelons. I can win at _anything.”_

“That was two summers ago!” Ephraim cries. “Why do you _still_ go on about it!?”

...But Innes is off in his own little world. “Although I suppose even I may struggle to wrestle a shark like you no doubt could, given your muscle structure and rigorous training—”

“I genuinely can’t work out if you’re complimenting me or not.” A beat of silence, then: _“You imagine me wrestling sharks!?”_

_That’s_ what makes Innes suddenly startle and twist his head away so that his face isn’t visible. A fun (and cute, although Ephraim will never say that out loud) fact about Innes is that when he gets even somewhat embarrassed, his entire face becomes a shade that a tomato would be envious of, nose and ears and all. Although Ephraim can’t see his face, he _can_ see the tip of his ears going bright red. “E-enough of that! We need to train.”

He wants to further tease him, but he also doesn’t want to rile Innes up and make him faint from overworking himself. It’s clear that whatever training he’s already put himself through with his bow was strenuous enough, but getting Innes to admit to anything less than perfection was like attempting to break diamond. “Lead the way.”

With a huff, Innes swings out the tails of his coat before they continue to walk side-by-side.

Watching the sun begin to peak out from behind the mountaintops, Ephraim couldn’t help but smile, his chest light and warm.

“Where did you get your boots from, though?”

“So you _were_ looking.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“...It won’t be difficult for me to get you a heeled pair identical to your current ones custom-made. It must be quite frustrating being smaller than one’s own younger sibling.”

“Ah… thanks, Innes.”

“Think nothing of it.”

It's a good day.


End file.
